


You Made a Rebel

by kjack89



Series: The Story of Us (Fairytale AU) [7]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Blood, Crack, Fluff, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 18:34:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2358041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the battle finally commences, blood is spilled, and help comes from unexpected quarters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Made a Rebel

**Author's Note:**

> Penultimate part!
> 
> Usual disclaimer. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

It was a solemn party that went forward, led at the front by Enjolras, heading towards the appointed battlefield at the appointed hour. Even their horses’ hooves seemed quiet in the early morning, the sun not yet peeking over the horizon, as if they knew already their riders’ fates.

They were too few.

Enjolras had come to that realization the night prior as they went over last-minute battle plans. If they were not joined by more rebels — and the signs seemed unfortunately unlikely in that regard, despite their best efforts — they would not survive a full siege against his father’s troops. And yet still they marched.

He offered any who would take it a chance to leave, to go back to their families or wherever, but none had taken him up on it, and he knew why — he was not alone in his hopes or his beliefs for a better world, a world without the tyranny of his father or the monarchy in general. Of course, that wasn’t necessarily reassuring when reconciled with the fact that most if not all of the men behind him were going to be killed in the upcoming battle, but Enjolras hadn’t necessarily gone into this with the expectation that he would live to see the other side.

So long as the Republic or at least the idea of the Republic survived, that was what was important. That, and the wishful, almost naive hope that Grantaire would somehow survive the upcoming fight.

He couldn’t dwell on that thought as they approached the battlefield — it would distract himself, and he would not disgrace the battlefield with his own distractions, not when every man behind him bore someone in their hearts too that they hoped would survive and live and perhaps even one day be free. So when they reached the apex of the final hill before the plain on which their battle would occur, he pulled his horse to a halt and stood up in his saddle. “Citizens!” he called, as those behind him slowly halted as well.

He looked down the rows of people, at the anxious looks on their faces, and knew what he needed to tell them. “Citizens,” he said again, his voice serious. “I do not address you as a king addresses his people but as one addressing his fellow citizens, for that is what you are, and that is what we fight for today. When we fight today, picture the future: picture the light, the love, the freedom and equality. We conquer today for no more wars and bloodshed in the future. We fight today to bring about a union of all peoples. Liberty, equality, fraternity — these are the absolute truths we bear on our banners, we mark on our shields, and we wield in our swords. These are the light for which we fight, and with this light, we shall be happy! Even if we die today, it will be with light in our hearts. He who dies here dies with the light of future, and our deaths will be the dawn of a new world. Courage, and onward!”

It was as if his words had lit a fire among them, for as one they barreled down the hill to the field of battle, cheering and yelling, swords and spears raised high. Enjolras galloped with them, cheering as well, though his eye was on the far edge of the clearing, on the slow legion moving forward onto the field, a legion larger than even he had anticipated.

Courfeyrac rode up next to him. “Do we parley once more?” he asked. “They’ll send someone forward to discuss last minute terms in hopes of dissuading us.”

“It would not hurt to hear what they have to say,” Combeferre pointed out from Enjolras’s other side. “Even if we have no plans to take them up on it. I think—”

Whatever he was about to say was interrupted by a single man’s cry from the other side, and all activity ceased at the sound. “I know that voice,” Courfeyrac muttered, suddenly pale. “That was Prouvaire.”

Enjolras paled as well. “He was meant to scout ahead and report back,” he said softly. “I had not even realized that he hadn’t returned.”

They watched in a quiet horror as two soldiers on the other side brought Jean Prouvaire forward and forced him to his knees. Though they were too far away to hear what they said to Prouvaire, or his response, they could see as one of the soldiers brought his spear up to bring the butt of it down on Prouvaire’s face, and Enjolras started forward violently, only stopping when Combeferre grabbed his arm. One of the soldiers on horseback trotted forward, standing halfway between the lines to call to them, “You, rebels! Listen to this. In his mercy, King Jean is granting you the option of unconditional surrender before any blood is shed. If you refuse, your comrade here shall die.”

Enjolras shook with anger, glaring across the clearing at the soldiers holding Prouvaire. “I will kill them all,” he growled. “I swear to whatever power there may be, I will—”

Whatever he was about to swear was cut off by Jehan’s clear, proud voice shouting, “Long live the Republic! Long live the future!”

Then the soldiers brought their swords down, and Jehan crumpled to the ground. “They’ve killed him,” Combeferre said, a little hollowly, as Courfeyrac let out a wordless cry.

“First blood,” Enjolras said, just as hollowly, his voice shaking with barely restrained rage. “My father wanted to spill first blood. He thinks it will make us more liable to surrender.” He took a shaky breath before saying in a low voice, “He has just killed every one of his soldiers.”

Even so, it was with obvious confidence that the king himself rode forward, surrounded by guards, clearly ready to begin the final parley. Combeferre looked over at Enjolras. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked softly. “We can go in your stead.”

Enjolras shook his head, his eyes flickering over his father’s group as well as the legions of soldiers, and said abruptly, “I don’t see Grantaire.” And with that, he kneed his horse forward, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchanged glances before following.

Enjolras’s shoulders were squared, his back rigid, and his fingers were itching toward the sword sheathed at his side, especially as his father reigned his own horse in and called to Enjolras in a genial voice, “Ah, and here is my son now.”

“Where is Grantaire?” Enjolras demanded as soon as he reached his father. “If you’ve hurt him, I swear on all that is holy, I will—”

“You’ll, what, kill me?” Jean asked in an almost bored voice, though there was amusement in his voice and expression as well. “I believe you’ve already promised to do so, meaning there’s no real motivation for me to provoke you further. Besides, I had nothing to do with your husband’s disappearance — he left of his own accord. Clearly not even he wished to stick around and watch you be defeated.”

Enjolras’s voice shook as he spat automatically, “You’re lying.”

But he had a sinking feeling in him stomach that his father wasn’t lying at all, which wasn’t helped by Jean laughing out loud and asking, “Why would I lie? If I had Grantaire still, I would have him here to force him to watch you fight and lose. I might even have asked him to be the one to kill you, just so that he was the last thing you would ever see.”

Enjolras’s sword was in his hand before he could even think, and the only thing stopping him from attacking his father outright was Combeferre and Courfeyrac both grabbing him. “You cannot attack during parley,” Combeferre hissed, pulling him back, though there was genuine sympathy in his expression. “And don’t read too much into Grantaire’s absence — he never believed in this and he knew some of us could get hurt. I’m sure he didn’t want to have to watch that.”

Though Enjolras knew Combeferre’s words were undoubtedly true, he could not shake the hurt that gripped his heart like a vise. Yes, Grantaire had never believed in their cause, but Grantaire had said that he believed in him, and if he truly did…

Enjolras shook his head, turning his attention back to his father, who was still watching him with amusement. “You are protected by the rules of parley,” he told his father coldly. “If you were not, I would kill you now. As it is, I will kill you before the day is through.”

Jean sighed and shook his head regretfully. “I had hoped we would resolve this peacefully, but I see that you refuse to listen to reason, as ever. When your friends are all dead beside you, will you finally give up your foolish dreams and take your place at my side?” Enjolras spit in his face, and Jean’s expression tightened as he wiped it off. “Fine. Be a petulant brat. You will die just the same.”

He turned his horse to gallop back to his troops, flanked by his soldiers, and Enjolras stared after him for a long moment before turning his back and heading back to his own line. He looked to his left at Courfeyrac and then to his right at Combeferre. “If we are to die, we’ll die facing the enemy,” he told them in a low voice.

“And we’ll make them pay,” Combeferre added quietly, his voice steely with resolve, while Courfeyrac’s shook slightly as he said, “Make them pay for Jean Prouvaire, and every man they’ve killed.”

Enjolras nodded. “Until the Earth is free.”

They nodded as well, then broke away to head to lead their own sections into the battle. Enjolras raised his sword, and those gathered with them broke into cheers. Then he kneed his horse forward, and the battle began.

The early morning air rang out with the sound of swords clanging against swords and shields, the neighs and whinnies of horses, the cries and shouts of men. Despite being hideously outnumbered, Les Amis and the rebels fought as if they had double or triple their number.

But it wasn’t enough.

They may have right on their side — Enjolras certainly knew that they did — but they were being worn down by the enemy, and Enjolras could see that as he looked around the battlefield. And it didn’t help that his father was clearly directing his troops to isolate Enjolras, as they kept trying to circle and cut him off from his friends.

And eventually, they managed just that, knocking Enjolras from his horse with a well-placed spear and pressing him back as they circled him. Enjolras raised his sword, mostly uninjured, and glared at the men who surrounded him. “If you’re going to kill me, then do it,” he snarled. “Or are you waiting for an order from my father?”

“He’s the prince,” one of the soldiers muttered. “We can’t just kill him—”

“Do it!” Enjolras shouted. “I am a traitor leading a rebellion against your king — I am  _not_  your prince! Fight me now, or turn tail and run, but offer me no special treatment.”

One of the soldiers stepped forward, and Enjolras pointed his sword at him, well-aware that he couldn’t protect himself from all sides, and preparing himself mentally for the worst.  _I’m sorry, Grantaire_ , he thought, a little desperately, when suddenly—

“Vive la République!” a familiar voice called, and Enjolras looked wildly around. “I am one of them!”

From out of nowhere, Combeferre the dragon, the self-same dragon who had guarded Enjolras in his tower all those years, swooped out of the sky, Grantaire on his back, sword in hand, and Enjolras almost dropped his own sword in shock. The dragon landed, taking out three soldiers with his claws, and breathed a plume of fire at the others, causing them to shriek and scatter.

They were not the only ones. Across the battlefield, soldiers were scattering, breaking formation and fleeing, because in addition to Combeferre the dragon, a full battalion of other creatures emerged, seemingly to fight on Les Amis’ side: centuars, fauns, other dragons and drakons, a herd of unicorns, and more. Enjolras stared around the battlefield in wonder before turning back to Grantaire, who was sliding off of Combeferre’s back. “Did you do this?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Seemed the least I could do. They’re as pissed at your father and his practices as anyone, and are pretty decent fighters, too. I was just afraid I wouldn’t make it back in time.”

“I thought—” Enjolras started before cutting himself off.

Grantaire half-smiled and reached down to squeeze Enjolras’s hand. “I know,” he said quietly. “I deserve everything you thought. But I’m here now.”

Enjolras reached up to touch the bruise that was just beginning to fade on Grantaire’s cheek. “My father?” he asked quietly.

Shrugging again, Grantaire looked away. “I left that night. I knew I’d kill the bastard myself if I stayed. But that’s not important right now.” He raised Enjolras’s hand to his mouth and kissed his knuckles. “Right now we have a battle to win. With your permission, anyway.”

Enjolras grinned at him and tugged him over to where Combeferre the dragon was waiting, leaping onto the dragon’s back and holding down his hand for Grantaire, who paled slightly. “Uh, I think I’ll fight from the ground. I had enough of your dragon friend here on the flight over.”

Raising a derisive eyebrow, Enjolras asked coolly, “Do you not trust me?”

“With my life,” Grantaire said instantly. “It’s the fire-breathing monster I have mixed feelings over.” Combeferre looked back and blew a smoke ring in Grantaire’s face, and he coughed, “See?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and gestured with his hand again. “Come on, I’ll protect you.” Though Grantaire sighed, he allowed himself to be pulled onto the dragons back, and settled against Enjolras, wrapping his arms around Enjolras’s waist. Enjolras called to Combeferre, who instantly took off, before adding to Grantaire in an undertone, “I’ll always protect you. I promise.”

Grantaire just grinned and tightened his grip on Enjolras’s waist before leaning in and kissing his cheek from behind. “Not now,” Enjolras said distractedly, though Grantaire could tell he was smiling. “Later. When all this is over and I finally have my husband alone, we are going to have the wedding night that we should have had, and I—”

"Enjolras," Grantaire interrupted. "As much as I am looking forward to that, if you continue down that line of thought I am going to get very inconveniently incapacitated with blood rushing to where I’d rather not have it be at the moment."

“Fair point.”

Enjolras circled the dragon in air, clearly looking for his father, and then urged Combeferre the dragon forward, landing him directly in front of where Enjolras’s father was not so much cowering as trying to look as dignified as possible while hiding behind bodyguards. Combeferre the dragon landed with a thud and sent a triumphant plume of fire into the air, causing said bodyguards to scatter, and Enjolras leapt off his back, sword in hand. His father regarded him warily. “Have you come to kill me, then?” he sneered, though real fear caused his voice to shake.

Smiling, Enjolras glanced back at Grantaire. “I did promise that if he hurt you, I would kill him myself.”

Grantaire slid off the dragon. “Nah,” he said casually. “Don’t do it for me. Do it for the years he kept you locked in a tower because you believed in change. Do it for the thousands slaughtered during his rule, and the hundreds more who lost their lives here fighting him. Do it for freedom, and equality, and for the chance of a better tomorrow.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in any of that,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire shrugged. “I never said I did.”

Enjolras smiled again, though this time there was something grim in it. “Yeah. You kind of just did.” He turned back to his father, his expression turning serious. “You may have only done one thing right during your entire rule, and that was allowing me to marry that man, and together, he and I are going to do everything you should have and everything you never did.”

His father started to make some excuses, but Enjolras did not listen. With a quick, practiced stroke not designed to tarry or draw things out more than necessary, he cut off his father’s head.

“The King is dead!” called one of the soldiers. “Long live the king!”

Other soldiers started to take up the cheer, stopping their fighting to do so, and Grantaire glanced around, bemused. “Is this really how the battle ends? Cut off the snake’s head, and—”

Enjolras shook his head, his expression stony. “No. It ends like this.” He vaulted onto Combeferre the dragon’s back and lifted his bloodied sword. “Citizens!” he bellowed, loudly enough that even those who had not heard the calls of the king’s death stopped their fighting to turn and stare. “The King is dead!”

“Long live the king!” another soldier shouted in response, but Enjolras shook his head again.

“No. Long live the Republic! And long live its people!”

The resulting cheer was a little slower getting started as many of the soldiers exchanged confused looks, but once it started, it couldn’t be contained, thundering across the battlefield as everyone on both sides threw down their arms to join in. Enjolras grinned fiercely and jumped off Combeferre the dragon’s back while calling Combeferre the wizard to his side. “Get my advisors together. The battle may be over but we have work to do in building this republic.”

Combeferre nodded and hurried to do so while Enjolras strode over to Grantaire, grabbing him around the waist and pulling him close. Grantaire smiled at him. “Long live the Republic,” he said quietly, reaching up to brush a curl out of Enjolras’s face.

Enjolras just smiled. “Long live us,” he whispered before kissing Grantaire.


End file.
